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Nothing is Really Important 

A Collection of Fifty 
Original Canadian Poems 

Patrick Bruskiewich 

October 2013 

© Patrick Bruskiewich 2013, 
Vancouver, BC, Canada 

All rights reserved. 

This book or any part thereof must not be reproduced in any form without 
the written permission of the author. 

The author can be contacted at 

pbruskiewich @ 


Table of Content 

There for the Grace of God Go I 4 

We Had Braved the North Atlantic Run 5 

Bring on the Rain 7 

Hug me for I am lonely 7 

Whilst Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder 8 

And Shadows Will Creep Away 9 

Joy Blossoms Forth 1 1 

That What Makes Me King 13 

The Tuscan Women Know 15 

Past these Hours ... at Twilight's Gate 17 

Like Strong Coffee 1 8 

So Near Yet Distant Can It Be 19 

You Can See That in My Math 21 

The Cat Lept Off 22 

Let Us Portray All Things of Beauty in our Art 23 

The Strong have Conquered Us the Weak 24 

The Majestic Beauty of Womanhood 26 

Is That Not Enough? 28 

Conceptions as to What Perhaps May Be 29 

And We Can't Seem to Get Rid of Them 30 

She Had Not Much Yet To Grow 32 

Rhyme Time 34 

She is the Minatrice 36 

Where Does Lost Time Go 38 

Your Politics is All Amiss 40 

I Know Not Beauty, I Know Not Sin 41 

She Creates Her Own Harness 42 


We've been Suzuki 'd . . . been Shanghai 'd 43 

Just Blame it on the Old White Man 45 

There are Ants in My Kitchen 47 

One Can Find Summer's Happiness 49 

Depression Session 50 

From Which Learns He 51 

She Creates Her Own Harness 53 

It's Four a.m. Now 54 

Nibble and Bytes 56 

Galileo's Birthday 57 

Can a Diana 57 

I Really Need to Beat this Heat 58 

That Rush to Never Land 58 

Nothing is Really Important 60 

Towards Uncharted Shores 61 

And Please Don't Forget Something Strong 63 

There's a Mouse in my House 64 

Then . . . There was the Fifth 66 

... That Was That 67 

Brother . . . Can You Spare a Dime? 68 

Oh . . . Forty! 69 

Ergo ... why Study? 70 

Ode to Pythagoras 71 

Book Notes: 73 


There for the Grace of God Go I 

There for the grace of god go I. 
to step the fields, and crosses count 
lay down your life for me! 
but I shall not forget 

The guns no longer speak 
your youthful cries are din 
you have not grown old, as we 
but I shall not forget 

Forgotten names and far off places 
reasons long lost in time, 
and me no sacrifice in kind 
but I shall not forget 

In air, at sea and on the ground 
some battles won and some lost 
progress made at too dear a cost 
but I shall not forget 

Primo no nocere, I am told 
by those who won and now grow old 
their wisdom alive here in my heart 
but I shall not forget 

Bom a day long past 
the wars that would not last 
brothers now, no bone contend 
but I shall not forget 

There for the grace of god go I 
to step the fields, and poppies pick 
crimson red, reminders still 
but I shall not forget 


We Had Braved the North Atlantic Run 

Death came swift at sea 
We lost our ship did we 
The Focke-Wulf bombed us 
Enemy Action . . . sunk us 

It circled our ship at dusk 

With only a machine gun 

Our defense ... the bastard Hun 

Shattered my bridge with cannon fire 

My first mate died at my side 

. . . then its calculated run 

It flung at us, a hungry cat at mouse 

I rung up speed . . . turned my ship . . . 


From a distance we saw it come, fast 
and furious, the drop ... the deed was done 
We had braved the North Atlantic Run 
We the brave had lost. 

Five hundred pounds the bomb it was 

Plunged at us and hit 

A horrid flash, the noise 

The smoke ... it exploded amidships. 

This our purgatory on earth 

The devil is our fi-iend, the hissing 

of a thousand vipers, the escape of steam 

Abandon Ship! Abandon Ship! 

My stockers climbed the steep stairs 
Up from the engine room ablaze 
Leaving the dead behind in hell. Scalded 
soaked in oil, into the icy sea they plunged 


One last message to the world 
before spark's electricity fades 
"CQ...CQ.... Come Quick!" 
We sink ... all is lost ..." 

Then the lowering of the boats, we race to 
scramble down off our ship. One last time 
We leave our lives behind 
From now its borrowed time. 

Then the final show, the ship we loved 
The naked keel, modesty gone 
Our ship . . . proud Cynthia slipped 
into the sea . . . her bow dived steep. 

The evil plane done flew away 
to kill another day ... the Hun had Won! 
We had braved the North Atlantic Run 
We the brave had lost. 

Then silence, the sea wrapped around us. 
... it hide us from the sun. 
Our long ordeal had now begun 
We drifted countless days on days. 

The hours passed, the long nights. 

The cold, the anguish, the dicing 

All brave men . . . the stench of oil. 

Burnt flesh and gore . . . the cry mother I am to die. 

The fact that I am here 
to tell my solemn story 
meant you had come in time 
and saved me from me glory 

The Hun hangs around my neck 
like some dead albatross. 
Let me sail another day, 
give me another ship 


Once again I'll brave the North Atlantic Run 
Give me the tools and I shall finish the job 
No bastard Hun will kill me off 
If not for myself . . . then old England 

Bring on the Rain 

The smell it came before the rain 
as powerful as the clouds. The sky 
itself did not stay unchanged. 
It moved without a sound. 

The day, well, the day stood still 
unlike the clouds that hurried past. 
The mist broke upon the hill 
the haze, the vapour, would not last. 

And in the sky the horrid sun 
bore down upon the world. It fought 
a battle it might have won 
were it not fleeing from its lot. 

The cursed sun, be gone, be gone 
the damage you have done . . . leave . . . 
Bring on the rain, the torrential 
rain, the unmitigating run. 

IHug me for I am lonely 

"One Pair, Baby shoes, never used." 

Hug me . . . 

for I am lonely. 


Whilst Absinthe IVIakes the Heart Grow Fonder 

Vincent . . . my stars shine bright 
They simmer like diamonds of sand 
Oh draw you in, come let me laugh 
Away the moon and azure land 

A light that in our darkness rise, 

in sordid public house, where one can set 

to one's own ruin ... go mad . . .commit a crime 

growl gruff, hallucinate ... ere nightmare get 

Partake, I must this verdant sin 
not once . . . not twice . . . not in between 
let loose the dogs, yes lure me in 
then ask me not where I have been. 

Lie here, I must, against the spin 
how else can I redeem my soul? 
Pray catch the chaos that is within 
and fortify my heart against the cold. 

A sun here bums within my soul 
Whilst absinthe makes the heart grow fonder 
Why! No one ever comes to harm, old 
Selves that burden us to blindly wonder. 

Is there a God that truly knows 
What we want better than ourselves? 
Who helps us where we dare not go 
And paint away unhappy lives? 

This I say to you . . . 

Remember when I am gone 
And colour not my story 
Whilst in life I was a soul foregone 
In death, sun's flowers are my glory 


And Shadows Will Creep Away 

My shadow crept across the floor 
It stretched as far as time permit 
and marched its way beyond the door 
far into the empty hall beyond. 

It mark the impending step of time 
when friendship lasts a little while 
and misadventures are a crime 
boxed as a captive on trodden tiles. 

What does one do as sadness comes? 
When grief and sorrow and pity lands 
hard upon a worn out face that some 
short moment before knew great hope. 

It says 'Hrust no oner surely not yourself! 
Go to and hide behind your shadow. 
Do not bear to show your face 
on which tears stream pitied, lo. 

Let this outcast light creep away. 
The darkness comes and hide. Let no 
one touch your solemn heart, pray 
set yourself against the world ... go ... 

End not as a forgotten captive 
of the misdeeds or others, who 
choose not to understand your life 
and do what tortuous harm they do. 

Well, a person cannot be an isle . . . 
done entire of themselves, they say. 
Yet I know fate will, in a while 
lend lasting refuge from rueful days. 

And shadows will creep away 
do mischief to others, fear 


do return when some unfutured day 
my eyes forever are dried of tears. 

I wish not to be left alone, 
far from even you, my shadow . . . 
Friend, if time heals all earthy wounds 
seek me not too long tomorrow . . . 

For then I shall be your shadow 
and creep across your trodden floor 
to whisper quietly into your ear 
that I am here no more. 

Joy Blossoms Forth 

At birth there was a precious seed 
no bigger than a mote of fluff 
from whence there grew with term 
a sprig, much cherished and beloved. 

The water, earth, sun and wind 
lent this little babe its life. 
From this small sprig there grew 
the majesty of beauty and of youth. 

With the passage of scarce time 
the sprig became a bush then tree. 
Its branches sprouted forth and buds 
appeared, proclaiming loss of innocence. 

Upon this gentle tree then sprang 
leaves set against the bursting winds 
which nourished so sweet a thing 
first issued forth this month of march. 

Such beauty did then blossom forth! 
Oh sweet flower stay with us awhile 
I beg you not to float to earth, before 
I have a chance to share my love. 

What guise is this, this pink fragrance 
that scatters forth upon the breeze? 
It is unsullied snow, I think, 
gracious and lovely as herself. 

At birth there was a precious seed 
no bigger than a mote of fluff 
from whence there grew with term 
a sprig, much cherished and beloved. 

Here today for such brief time 
kept as remembrances tomorrow. 


A sad flower never blossoms full. 
Life is too short to abide in sorrow. 

As the water, earth, sun and wind 
helped the gentle tree to grow 
so too will hope and love 
lift a sad heart to paradise. 

The cherry blossoms only when 
life is radiant and feelings warm 
Existence springs from happy thoughts 
True beauty floats above the world. 

When your heart is sad, remember 
somewhere not far above your woe 
there is a paradise of love in which 
you will find a peaceful friend. 

That What Makes Me King 

Love and Lust, Croesus' touch 
Is everything ever enough? 
We fancy all, our paradise found 
until it just comes crashing down. 

What then we ask? 

We have our health. 

But not our wealth. 

Foul weather friends . . . perhaps. 

Long wrinkles on our honest face. 
Gray hair and an aged grace. 
Wisdom gained through our malchance 
and misfortune's many happenstance. 

Neither empire, nor clothes have we 
to hide our person's indignity 
We are ourselves and not much more 
Are we really, truly poor? 

Do we need love? I guess we do 
As for lust, does any count matter. 
Lift me to the happiness of day 
amidst the pillows of soft maternity. 

Wealth is hidden somewhere else perhaps 
In words, why not in words? 
Gold coinage long do not here last 
when humanity is our pressing trade. 

Who remembers Shakespeare's banker? 
The cloth cut by Milton's tailor? 
A sweet from Albert's baker? 
Aye or Joyce's doctor, who? 

Care not, we have more pressing 
Matters, which pricks our fancy 

amidst soft ft)lds, love's perfiime 

and pleasures - that what makes me king. 

The Tuscan Women Know 

Beyond the trees, set rows 
away from the tortuous sun 
the Tuscan women know 
to wait, for they who come. 

The threshing's 'nere over 
The dry hay heaped, pile high 
Tired men return sombre 
From the endless fields, bye 

the bye, our drink await us. 
Come our wilful mates 
with us into the shade, lust 
we for that that cannot wait. 

What could be worst, the burden 
we carry in our heavy pouch, 
or the sun that seeks to murder 
us? Snatch we our lunch. 

Set us back. Feed us your pears, 
sweet figs, plums and apricots. Come 
be happy with us. Lay us bare and 
wipe our brow clean, 'til we be done. 

Then let us sleep our dreams, 
head set upon soft pillows. 
And know what pleasure means 
Watching clouds above us billow. 

Our toil can wait 'till 
the afternoon is near set. 
Hide us behind your hills . . . 
let dry our sweat. 

Far as we can see 

restore us by your pleasure 

Esrt happy we shall be 

to sleep deep within our treasure. 


Past these Hours ... at Twilight's Gate 

I howled at the moon 
The moon frowned back 
It floats a shiny balloon 
Alight against the black. 

Above the sombre of this bay 
Soft temper reflected twice 
Once fi-om a face, again away 
Over calm waters, still and nice. 

Who brands me! A lunacy 
Amongst sane people, maybe not. 
As for I, pray let me be 
And you, just don't get caught. 

For us all, night's madness waits 
Even genii, in spirit and in thought 
Past these hours ... at twilight's gate 
When respite cannot be bought. 

I shed now all my clothes 
And make my way to bed 
In fear my eyes I close 
For I may soon be dead. 

Awake I can do know 
The passage of measured time 
A heart that beats, the blow 
A damaged neck and spine. 

But when I sleep I cannot tell 
A dream from what is real 
My life it is a hell 
Soon to heaven I may steal. 

These words that I do light 
I scribe by inconstant moon 

And you my friend just might 

By chance, ere tu, you join me soon. 

Like Strong Coffee 

In this world, unknown 
the real becomes surreal, 
normal becomes absurd 
Nothing is what it seems! 

To live in this world, 

the possible becomes the impossible 

the truth, anything but . . . 

You try to hide form reality. 

To escape all your thoughts 
Then something strawberry appears! 
Soft, sweet and succulent 
Paris' match - Gaulique! 

Like strong coffee ... a cup 
Petite yet not so fragile. 
Everything has changed, here 
is something I wish known 

You try to hide 
from your thoughts, 
but all you can imagine 
is sugar and spice . . . 

So Near Yet Distant Can It Be 

But soft this moon lit night 
Sits gentle atop the bay 
Opposed by Cassiopeia's might 
It whispers . . . whats it say? 

Look down upon its mortal men 
Far shores reached by handsome few. 
It circles earth but once again 
before this month is through. 

It brings the surges, mighty wash 
to cleanse the kindly soul. 
Upon emotive shores are tossed 
the gallant, strong and bold. 

Betwixt the twenty days and eight 
wild ostriches and elephants do roam 
Those games that men and woman wait 
to play get written up in poem. 

The stars do twinkle oh so bright 
Each and every one so named. 
Their passion do draw us fright 
then calmness once they came. 

That little death we die 
for our two fortune's sake. 
Once more again we try 
and pray our efforts take. 

So near yet distant can it be 
the gentleness of newfound youth 
when seventy and two hundred days, 
sees grand issuance of human truth. 

The other side we dare to hide 
we cannot find the words. 

In emptiness our hearts abide 
the pitied, barren and the hurt. 

Yet soft, a moon lit night 
sits gentle above the bay. 
Behold such beauteous sight 
Blue eyes . . . cast newborn gaze. 

You Can See That in My Math 

I am Bohemian 
. . . really I am 

I am as flighty as the clouds 
The rain is my tears 

The sky is never gray 

My sun, it shines all the time 

The Caravan of my life 
Never lingers long in one place. 

Numbers define my universe 
Expanding, I mathematique! 

Genius is how God thinks 
of me, no dust in my eyes. 

The rest of humanity, well 
seems to sleep unsettled. 

My calculation is sinh(x). 
Everything important is relative 

You can see that in my math 
Really ... I am bohemian. 


The Cat Lept Off 

The pussy sat on her lap 

It purred as she stroke it 

Forth and back, and then she tapped 

To keep the pussy happy. Sit! 

It wanted to sit. Stay 
But it would not. It grew 
Warm to her touch. She played 
awhile. It purred softly. Knew 

she its buttons, its nose. Whiskers too and fro. 
She softly pawed, fanged but could not stop. 
She squirmed, meowed, but could not go 
As, she was content to be a top. 

She ran her fingers to and fro some more. 
The cat shuddered. She lept off 
Not once, not twice, she did keep score 
A perfect count, but could not get enough. 

Let Us Portray All Things of Beauty in our Art 

Let us portray all things of beauty in our art 
that is the essence of life and light. 
And praise the dignity of our heart 
speak majestic words, both good and right. 

Our dreams are creativity found 

by colour, perspective and curved lines. 

We draw the measure of all around, 

the dissimilar, disjoint, the rough, the kind 

What difference is there between art and life . . . 
Between future, present or past? 
That what delivers our happy strife 
the fleeting or the things that last. 

If artists are not the ones to lift 

up the sad and forgotten man 

what there is worth our god given gift 

For is there anyone else who really cares? 

The Strong have Conquered Us the Weak 

We know despair, we always do 

Through the loss of beauty, something sacred. 

A goddess perhaps keeps watch so 

Nemesis does, in due course we are punished. 

Grand monuments crumble, our city disappears 
Darks shadows overtake the light. 
The hollow wind wails in anguish, the end is near 
Before long we shall lose our fight. 

We are mortal! The passage of time seems endless. 
Our thoughts once writ are easily forgotten, so they say. 
So let us etch them in stone and make them priceless 
This shall outlast our lives by many a day. 

But once the last of us has spoke 
Who then can understand of what we speak? 
Our lives, our loins drift away like smoke 
The strong have conquered us the weak 

They castrate us, then cut out our tongue. 
Our offspring are cast in the river 
they roast those parts from us that they have rung 
The rest wait their fate, in fear they weep and shiver 

Our broken shields they pound to ploughs 
The gold we called our own recast 
their king in time becomes renown 
and our fate becomes a long forgotten past. 

Many centuries hence you'll stand 
where once I bled, a testament to life. 
Left to whither in the sun, to a last man 
we all, staked to suffer a tortuous strife. 

The buzzards have gathered to pick our bones 
Our flesh has cooked here in the sun 

They fight amongst the ruins of our homes 
Their boundless feast has just begun. 

The Majestic Beauty of Womanhood 

In the tree's shadow . . . 

Close your eyes and imagine all 
Am I your Adam, a pear green? 
Eve savour the taste after the fall. 
No shame for what we have been 

For hidden beneath the outer sight 
under layers, much layers of soft cloth 
is that what draws us towards the light 
like twilight's flighty, violent moths. 

The string that binds your shame 
lay tangled, naughty, moving still. 
This time will pass, do then beware 
is this what your wish or will? 

Venture I into the valley below 
and climb glacier's high 
peel back the skin that glows 
of crimson flush and do we sigh. 

We are at heaven's gate 
Glance back, peer forward, stand proud 
Our patience melts, we cannot wait 
We cannot live atop a cloud. 

Step us then out of paradise 
To slip the bounds of our regrets 
and uncover what is so nice. 
Lay you down upon your dress. 

Let my fmger tips caress with leisure 
the wholeness of you, from toe to head 
and your body now flush with pleasure 
will fill with warm perfume our soft bed 

Where is hid the body's lair, its treasure? 

Let me trace out the geometry of your curves 

let ascending breath set the measure, 

the gauge, the crackle, the current of electric nerve 

My moist tongue will kiss both lips 

Those painted pink, and those pinked dreamed 

And suckle at your hidden tips 

that little boy, less hidden seemed. 

And split the fruit, to plant the seed, 
but first furrow, the fertile and the soft 
Lunge not esrt 'til thrust agreed. 
The serpent has found its loft. 

And I now still, you less so 
The grace and majesty of you 
From above admiring all I know 
Stop I and let you finish what's to do. 

We two ascend back to the clouds, thou more. 
You switch me unto my back 
Then I lend to all in store 
And you have set me trapped. 

Oh ... oh ... oh .. . how much further must we go? 
I try but I cannot wait no longer 
Touch you your fingers to my lips, you know 
Please wait . . . please wait ... be stronger. 

Then your lyrical dance beyond mere words 
profane perfection of the human mind 
oh, heavenly singing of this bird, 
the majestic beauty of womankind. 

Is That Not Enough? 

There is hollowness in words 
Spoken, yet not heard. 
The numbness comes by itself 
and knows to stay awhile. 

We can't seem to go forward. 
Are we friends .... just friends? 
Not strangers, nor lovers. 
We are what we were, of late. 

And tomorrow, like all yesterdays 
No different, yet much the same. 
Will anything change? Probably not! 
For we are just friends, is that not enough? 

Conceptions as to What Perhaps May Be 

With women, as with flowers 
Bright pollen bursts from within 
Carried by the wind before the tower 
That dare cast shadows on our sins. 

The secret splendour of a dream 

avant tout le monde, garde 

ton Coeur\ Fear not what somehow seems 

take the very easy, not the very hard. 

Can our will sit at boundary's reason 
Set it not down at life's centre 
The wind it changes with each season 
Your fragile heart so too will render 

What thoughts precede our actions, let's see 
Is it joy and happiness we sought 
Conceptions as to what perhaps may be 
The price we've paid for what we've bought 

Set on! Otherwise unhappiness will be your lot 
And vulgarity life's certain fixity 
The nonsense, reason and myth all got 
From Heraclitoris' self-righteous deity. 

Par chance, je suis malheureux, et ce n 'est 
pas votre, ni ma faute, ni celle de la vie. 
In seconds, minutes, hours and days 
what awaits my lot, we all shall see. 

And We Can't Seem to Get Rid of Them 

The Tower. It stands Majestic 
Peaceful, yet powerful. 
Our Flag, the Splendid Flag 
flies crested in the wind. 

This is the place! 
People picked, Parler! 
Discuss, debate, decide! 
Here, high up the Hill. 

It leans like Pisa 
sometimes to the right 
'nere often the other way 
but always it sways 

It survives the wind 

Sometimes it evens stands, straight up 

Purposeful, proud and true. 

It stands on guard for me 

It rises, a clarion loud above 
each individual stone 
that makes this edifice grand 
Its mortar is rock solid. 

Then darkness blocks out the sun 
The Tower whistles and yowls, 
for from its very bowels 
Is heard a discouraging sound 

Can you hear it . . . 
nibble nibble crunch 
Listen carefully 
nibble nibble crunch crunch 

Mr. Speaker , Mr. Speaker . . . 

The Honourable Member for Points Far West 

I Regret to Inform the House 
Yes ... crunch ... crunch ... 

That we are in the midst 
Crunch CRunch 
Of a crisis to this place 
What! ... WHAT? 

Order . . . Order in the House 
The Member has the floor 
Mr. Speaker ... it is an infestation. 
CRUnch CRUNch 

Come again . . . What! 


Their underminding our foundations 

nibble nibble crunch crunch 

And from the members comes the cry 

Is it termites? 


Worst Still ... 
What then? 

Honourable members . . . 

and we can't seem to get rid of them 


She Had Not Much Yet To Grow 

Laura de France, la Lyonesse 
She tries to understand her heart, 
and find true happiness in what is best 
The full pleasure that is the part. 

She sits and ponders where does love begin? 
In the mind, or in some other place? 
She worries about where and when it ends 
The kind, the measure and the case. 

As she sits a blue butterfly dances by 
She plays she paws at the air 
Then lets out a misfit sigh. 
It floats away. Why should I care? 

With her sad eyes she looks around 
Alone, surrounded by snivelling cubs 
Who stumble the part and whine the sound. 
Silly little things she knows to snub. 

They are little awkward boys. 

Her majesty they understand nought. 

All led by their pendant toys. 

Flesh and conquest it's all they sought. 

Laura, you are our concubine they growl 
La Lyonesse she knows what she lacks. 
But again they begin to hunt, to prowl 
When she rolls unto her back. 

The afternoon sun feels good to her 
as she lays in the shade of a solitary tree. 
Her pride, her warm breast, her soft fur 
She wants quiet ... oh let me be! 

Then a cub, her tail tugs he 
She hissed and cried out 

How dare you touch me 
Then more join in the bout. 

They jump on her, they maul 
She fought them off as best she can 
They paw her belly, then a growl 
Things end as fast as they began. 

The Master of the Pride arrives. 
He struts with majestic step 
This, his daughter, his newest bride 
He came to claim, and to protect. 

Laura sat up and with raised head 
Sneered over at the fearful set 
Never will I share your common bed 
Somewhere else, your pleasure get! 

She turns her back and strides away. 
She swings her tail to and fro 
To bask in the remains of the day. 
She had not much yet to grow. 

Rhyme Time 

Clip ... clop 
Flip . . . Flop 
Hip . . . Hop 

Hippy . . . Dippy 
Really . . . Lippy 
Silly ... Sally 

Hilly ... Filly 
Filly . . . Fanny 
Billy ... Willy 

Oh ... no 
So ... Slow 
Don't ... go 

Kind . . . smile 
Fine . . . guile 
Mine . . . awhile 

Clop... Clip 
Flop . . . Flip 
Hop . . . Hip 

Dippy . . . Hippy 
Lippy . . . Really 
Sally ... Silly 

Filly ... Hilly 
Fanny . . . Filly 
Willy ... Billy 

No ... oh 
Slow ... so 
Go ... don't 

Smile . . . kind 


Guile . . . fine 
Awhile . . . mine. 

She is the Minatrice 

Her eyes are verdant green, 
As was her succulent soul. 
Looking at her, she did not seem 
so outgoing, to be so bold. 

Yet by her actions, bold she was. . . 
not held back, and brash as well. 
What appetites! Pray, what does 
she - what faint heart can tell. 

She stalks the moon lit night 
and seeks, as she must, new prey. 
She longs until things are set right 
then is transformed until the day. 

Her crimson lips seek onto all 
As she keeps you, her catch, so close 
Her soft, hunger is your fall . . . 
before long she somehow grows. 
She knows all there is about you. 
She folds your precious petals back 
Devouring your hidden truth, too 
private to be shared . . . yet nothing lacks. 

She is the Minatrice, half-lust 
Half-love, ready to die 
or be consumed. She offers, she must. 
Unsuspecting, you cannot look in her eyes. 

What does he see, but her soft lips 
Perhaps her bare femality 
Entranced is he by inviting hips 
He does not sense familiarity 

Of what she is . . . half beast 
Ready to feast ... to sup 
To take from him the least 

That he is prepared to give up. 

As he lays with her, he does not sense 
the grave danger he is in, not a breath. 
She smothers him with her presence 
until he is wrapped and clothed by death. 

Then she finishes off her feast 

She draws apart his limbs, one by one 

He feels nothing, he is asleep 

The pain, one fast slice ... he comes 

And so the Minatrice is satisfied. 

Where Does Lost Time Go 

Where does lost time go 
at the end of each day? 
Ask! No one can honestly say 
'cause no one truly knows. 

Alas, do the soft clouds 
ever lay down their tired heads? 
Well . . . where are their beds 
as they drift all around. 

And the poor, gentle wind 
whispers back, sadly apart 
sharing secrets of the heart 
as it gathers up our sins. 

When the sun banes to sets 
Upon the distant waters 
Can we see the sea boil 
and hear the oceans' hiss? 

After evening's sunset 
the stars they do appear here 
silently coy as if this were 
the first time they have met. 

When our daily toil is ended 
and we are robbed of lust 
are we then crumbled dust . . . 
are our frail sense offended? 

Alas, when the sun again 
appears afresh in the morn 
Are all our dreams forsworn? 
The hard night did pass in vain? 

When fi-om our sleep we do rise 
with the dark passage of time 


More words, that together do rhyme 
Sweep across our furrowed minds. 

Ask me where lost time goes 
One instant it is here 
And then next it is there 
Don't ask ... no one knows. 

Your Politics is All Amiss 

Your politics is all amiss 
Your prejudice is far from new 
In you, what naivety there is 
Wrapped in your point of view 

When in your glass you peer 
The truth you think you see 
You are left, half lost I fear 
Never right! As wrong as one can be. 

Declare yourself that all men are free 
Yet your thoughts are but illusions 
Chained in your world, never left to be 
a theology of grand delusion. 

Your victims piled high, your legacy 
lifeless cords, your marks forgotten souls 
Hate has become your litany 
Freedom erased, perhaps your goal. 

I Know Not Beauty, I Know Not Sin 

All that eyes 

Do seek 
All that hearts 

Do find 
All this is inside 

My troubled mind. 

Enter my hope 

All is well 
Enter my fear 

I cannot tell 
Enter my illusions 

All is hell. 

On time 

In faith 
On hope 

In pain 
On that all 

Is the same. 

We know 

Things different 
We find 

We are mislaid 
All is lost 

I do not care. 

I know not 

. . . beauty 
I know not 

... sin 
I only know 

What is within. 

She Creates Her Own Harness 

His world is his needle 
Everything that he is 
exists in his small pen 
that pierces through her flesh 

She can't see how he got in 

She can't find her way out 

She is captured, then tied down 

forced against her will . . . out of her mind. 

Once he is in, he is in. 

Her world shrinks to nothing 

She hides her agony well 

He has her hunger and her thirst. 

Her's is a cry of desperation 
A hope for her chance 
He pumps into her 
oblivious of her pain. 

When it has become inevitable 
he tires. Rest will soon be at hand. 
He is blinded by his banner 
She, well hidden by her shame. 

Then she wakes, then she shakes, 
her dream has left her wet. 
She creates her own harness. 
A fantasy to escape her lonely life. 

We've been Suzuki'd ... been Shanghai'd 

The Rising Sun 
It never set 

Yamamoto ha fiitatabiho shimasse 
Nippon ha made seifuku [1] 

It sweeps across the Pacific 
Like a fleet of ships 

Sukoshitesaki . . . booto . . . 
Banzai . . . Banzai . . . Banzai ... [2] 

Can you smell it? 

The stench of decaying truth 

Seijo no fiihai 

Yamadhumino ki no koodo [3] 

They say the Asian Holocuast 
Did not occur. Thirty million 

Kie ta . . . sugatawo keshi ta 
Karera ha sonzai shimasen! [4] 

The truth has died 

A thousand little deaths 

. . . shisana danpenni stesudannagura 

taberu shi tsuba wo haita, mataha saiaku mada [5] 

The Narcicissm, Demagoguery, Prejudice of the Thing! 
We have all been Suzuki'd ... been Shangai'd 

Its calculated, an algorithm . . . the old fart, 
such arrogance . . . hell ... its all academic 

It's mighty Goliath at his best 
It's all fugly history. 

[1] Yamamoto sails again 
Japan conquers still 

[2] Little minions . . . boats 

Banzai . . . Banzai . . . Banzai . . . 

[3] the putrefaction of decomposing flesh 
cords of wood piled high 

[4] vanished . . . disappeared 
they did not exist 

[5] cut into little pieces . . . beaten 
eaten and spat out, or worst yet 

Just Blame it on the Old White Man 

The Canada I once knew has died 
Sliced thin, scattered into a million pieces 
It has been diced, know you now why I cry 
Look . . . Narcissism, Demagoguery, Prejudices 

This once great country's history has been erased 
Dear Dominion, Who Stands on Guard for Thee? 
Disguise and myths has taken history's place 
We have the right, the reasons, they plead. 

The Crumbs, the Bullies, the Corrupt, 

Propaganda is the game they play 

Who built this country . . . Asians 

Who are the enlightened ones . . . aboriginals. 

There was no railway . . . sea to sea 

After they came, it was plundering all the way. 

The Scotsman conned the Metis 

See. And it continues to this day! 

The truth is meaningless, it does not fit 
The facts ... so well they too can change 
Just yell, long hard, the rest shall sit 
Tussled, cajoled, their hearts much pained. 

Now they are old, and forgotten 

A generation who gave so much 

To the common good, in return they gotten 

Pushed aside, neglected, 'ere turned to dust 

The heart of the city Occupied, a master plan 

Set out . . . play the game, the Tanuki 

Says, or you don't get the prize. You fiends 

Your crewel bastards, it was wrong to fight 

And beat the Japanese ... so says apologist Suzuki 

The Plunder it did not go 

The war, the killing, Nankin, the rape 
Say a lie, so many times, upon 
Which your Minions will believe. 

Its so Saint David says. Great . . . 

Watch! Gimme gimme, I want I want 
Give me it all, I grab because I can. 
Nothings good in this old land, nothing counts 
Just blame it on the old white man. 

There are Ants in My Kitchen 

Little ants in the kitchen, 
they scurry fro and to 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

They're on the counter tops, 
they run around the pans and pots 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

These little stupid, silly things 
I'm glad they have no wings! 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

Look at them! They search around. 
No crumb . . . not one they've found. 
There are ants in my kitchen. 
What ever am I to do? 

I'll show these frantic little pests 
I'll show them who knows best. 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

They think they're clever oh so smart 
I have a plan . . . now let's start. 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

I grab my vacuum to stand tall 
and then stood back against the wall. 
There are ants in my kitchen 
What ever am I to do? 

I could kill them, yes I would 
Must I . . . really ... I guess I could. 

There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

They're doing their job, and so am I 
These little creatures don't deserve to die. 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

There're more of them, but one of me 
I'll be clever and leave them be! 
There are ants in my kitchen. 
What ever am I to do? 

I'll scrub and clean and scrub some more 
I'll clean from counter top to door. 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

All day long I've done the chore 
Its late, I'm tired, I can't do more. 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

Next morning early up I got 
To stand besides the pans and pots. 
There are ants in my kitchen, 
what ever am I to do? 

One came out alone to play 
Looked at me as if to say 
We'll leave our game for another day 
There are ants in my kitchen. 

One Can Find Summer's Happiness 

Amongst the warmth and Hght of an August afternoon 
Amongst the clouds and raindrops too 
Even in a world so much at odds and ends 
One can find summer's happiness. 

It is the gleam of sunlight on the ocean 

Reflecting off the hair of a strawberry beauty 

Who has shared, an afternoon delight with me 

And I so unprepared for things . . . things best left unsaid 

Summer bliss, of memories and desires 
Of gracefulness, that floats by overhead 
Castles - a Princess' realm, blown by 
immeasurable peace and newfound worlds 

That sensation of floating, heralded by perfume 
The essence of hidden flowers ... of pink butterflies 
Oh in such an Auguste place 
One can find summer's happiness. 

Depression Session 

or sis is really sick 
Pneumonia . . . she can't lie 
The cars done broke again 
And so once more am I 

My best friend's job's lost 
She's come to her wits end 
She can stand her boss 
He drives her around the bend 

Another one, well . . . her beau 
are now gone split apart. 
She's no where else to go 
with her sad, broken heart 

People call me all the time 
They call me day and night 
To recount to me their crimes, 
and relate to me their plight. 

Please world, leave me be. 
I have worries of my own 
Or can't you really see 
. . . don't call me on the phone 

But noooo, again it riiiinnngggs 
There's something that we sell 
As if silence were a sin! 
On man . . . can't you go to hell. 

If again the phone it harks 
I don't want to pick it up 
For heavy is my heart 
I've really had enough 

From Which Learns He 

I supped the nectar 
from the flower, a rose 
in full bloom. Let there 
be no fuller place posed 

The barb, it pricks 
It draws fresh blood. 
With my lips I lick 
my tongue I did so rub 

Across the soft petals 
set apart, one left . . . one right 
Rich pink velvet nettles 
that sail away the night 

And within? What is there 
but Ulysses journey 
The epic land laid bare 
From which learns he 

of gardens and delights 
of sea-nymphs that beckon 
him - have no fright! 
sail your ship right upon 

Venus' shoal, a pons 
that spans gulfed ground 
An island held tightly on 
the figure of one's hand. 

Such wistful bliss 
and music - the song flows 
From a mouth far amiss 
a face he well does know 

The waves they came, they crashed 
And suddenly they were gone 

Her passions unabashed 
The nectar flowed anon. 

She Creates Her Own Harness 

His world is his needle 
Everything that he is 
exists in his small pin 
that pierces through her flesh. 

She can't see how he got in. 
She can't find her way out. 
She is captured, then tied down 
forced against her will, out of her mind! 

Once he is in . . . he's in 
Her world shrinks to nothing 
She hides her agony well. 
She has her hunger and her thirst 

Her's is a cry of desperation 
a hope for her chance. 
He pumps into her, 
oblivious to her pain 

When it has become inevitable 
He tires, rest will soon be at hand 
He is blinded by his banner 
She well hidden by her shame 

Then she awakes . . . then she shakes 

Her dream has left her wet 

She creates her own harness 

her fantasy to escape a lonely life. 

It's Four a.m. Now . 

It's four a.m. now ... 
And I cannot sleep 
The warm milk hasn't helped. 
Life's a big bad dream. 

Tomorrow's rent day. 
What more is there to say? 
I live my life at the edge 
and a very sharp one at that. 

I'd count my pennies 
if they hadn't done them out. 
What next, the nickels too. 
What's one to do? 

In my dreams we play polo 
on tricycles, top hat and all. 
Around and around we go, 
knocking everything over. 

Heh ... it's a dream, ok? 
Awake we don't even have 
The top hats. I am so lonely 
I'd rather lie than live. 

The sky's not so blue 
And I am not in the pink 
Things may well still fall apart. 
It's enough to make one crazy. 

The cloud has burst 

The constant drizzle . . . the rain 

Will it stop? Maybe not 

It may even last forever. 

When it rains .. it rains .. 

When it pours . . . hell breaks loose 


I want to punch my hand 
through life, but it punches back. 

Its four a.m. now, 
and I cannot sleep. 


Nibble and Bytes 

Nibbles and bytes 

Damn . . . nibbles and bytes 

The hacker's at it again 

He wants my name 

My life . . . my money too. 

I'm too poor to care 

Maybe he's the boy next door? 
Odd's are he's somewhere far. 
All in a day's work I guess. 

Yo dude . . . You try too hard! 
Its not worth it believe me. 
You don't believe me? 

Troll away, knock yourself silly 

While you're busy . . . 

I'll go make myself some mint tea. 

The hacker ... he's at it again. 

Galileo's Birthday 

There was this Italian, Renaissance Sun 

We should together stand forth and say 

As cultured souls and learned ones 

The world should celebrate Galileo's Birthday! 

Can a Diana 

... au 

I Really Need to Beat this Heat 

In the shade I sit, 
iced mint in hand. 
Tea is not enough 
to stave off this heat 

The sea breeze 

smells of sweet 

sand and brine 

And it stands still . . . time 

I really need 
to beat this heat 
before this heat 
beats me . . . 

I cannot nap 
it is so hot. 
Can't read as well 
its hot as hell 

What am I to do? 
Then ... it catches my eye 
The sprinkler ... kid's stuff 
Pure bliss . . . 

Weeeeeeeee . . . 
Look at meeeee . . . 

That Rush to Never Land 

Who lives in separate 
worlds, one real 
The other imagined 
In the dark 

In the dark 

You can never be alone 
There is always us 
and our thoughts too 

There is anguish 
In the dark 

Still to escape the pain 
there is pleasure too 

Taking matters at hand 
there is that little death 
In the dark 

that rush to never land 

Nothing is Really Important 

The Universe 
is really nothing 

The Universe 

is everything important 

We should care about 
everything important. 

Ergo . . . about ever3^hing . . . 
nothing is really important 

Towards Uncharted Shores 

She made me wonder about 
her secret collections of things 
dainty, pink and orange lace 
that fit her mood or place 

Her Bikini Atoll . . . flowered 
like loud Hawaiian shirts 
Then one day she wore 
a flowing purple skirt 

She set sail from Maui 
towards fabled shores 
bright flowers and petals 
billowing, fragrant in the breeze 

She knew her hold, 
then it dawned on me . . . 
the feeling of knowing 
yet setting away with it 

This gave me a pleasure 
I never thought possible 
She knew that too 
... the pleasure that is 

The languid sailing 
Waves like white elephants 
afloat at our small table 
amongst the coffee set 

We sailed away together 
Around the sugar cubes 
and spoiled spoons 
the empty cups too. 

We have spirited Venus 
to pilot us towards 

uncharted shores 
as happy as we are. 

And Please Don't Forget Something Strong 

I write these words 
On the back of a crumpled 
And long discarded plain 
paper grocery bag . . . 

The next time 
you are at the store 
pick up a dozen 
poems or more 

A quart of ilk, 
or better still 
a pint of dream 
fancy free. 

A loaf of dread, 
fear nought, preferred 
with happy seeds 
twelve grain. 

And something sweet 
utterly fault free 
to spread over the dread 
and make it palatable 

Oh . . . please don't forget 
something strong 
to unclog the brain 
and feed the mind 

There's a Mouse in my House 

As I woke up 
With coffee in cup 
I happen to see ... gulp 

There's a mouse 
Near my house 
Oh! What a louse. 

Around it runs 

Its having fun 

From where did it come? 

It's in search of a feast. 
Can't it leave me in peace, 
this little grey beast? 

Look ... it has no fear 
No . . . don't come so near 
There's nothing for you here. 

I spill some coffee 
Then set down my cup 
On to the table top 

And grab up my broom 
Swearing its doom 
Stay out of my room. 

Where is that dam cat? 

The one that's so fat. 

It's asleep on the door mat. 

Wake up you lazy lout 
See! There's a mouse 
At my house. 

It comes close to me 

. . . please leave me be 
I just want to flee. 

I wish it would cease 

I know ..I'll toss it some cheese 

Or it will do as it please. 

Here's some good brie 

I'm your friend can't you see? 

Oh . . . look at its glee! 

It dashes too and fro 
I wish it would go 
I fear it you know. 

Onto a chair I go 
And teeter to and fro 
I'm going to fall ... oh no. 

And with a big crash 

Onto the floor I smash 

My peace just could not last! 

Then .. the cat woke with a start 
And then played its small part 
After the mouse it did run! 

The cat chased the mouse 
All through my house\ 
but couldn't catch the louse. 

Watch out ... cat 
Oh no not the table 
Like me its not stable 

Onto me my cup did spill 
Hot coffee . . . now I feel it 
Go away .. go away if you will 

As I lay on the floor 

The mouse ran out the door 
What ... is that it ... no more? 

Back on its mat . . . again 

The cat smiled its Cheshire grin 

Defeated I lay on the ground 

I watched the mouse scurry away 
What more can I say 
That mouse ruined my day. 

Then ... There was the Fifth 

The crows flew overhead 

They cawed, they cawed, they cawed, 

but one just strangely cackled 
And flew unlike the rest. 

There was a father crow 
A mother one two 

And little Jack and Jill 

The twins fresh from the nest. 

Then . . . there was the fifth 
Mottled and feather bare 

Much older than the rest 
With a half vacant stare. 

The crows flew overhead 

They cawed, the cawed, they cawed. 

Except the one who strangely cackled. 
This one, he was the raven lunatic 


... That Was That 

I watched from afar 
As the big black bear 
ate fistful of my berries 

It saw me and knew 
that what it ate was mine. 
But it just scratched its crotch 

When it had eaten its fill, 
content with its feast 
the big black beast 

Let out a big loud belch 
and So pleased with itself 
it squatted and left her scat 

As she ambled off, 
She glanced back at me 
Her grimace said it all 

... and that was that! 


Brother ... Can You Spare a Dime? 

They rob you 
Of your happiness 

These letters . . . the bills 
The . . . you owe us 

Or else, well 
. . . what else? 

You're big 
Fm not 

YouVe got lots 
in your pockets 

I don't! Me 
I have nickels 

If that and 
holes to boot 

Follow the trail 
of lost nickels 

Oh . . . youVe noticed 
The trail ends 

Brother . . . can you 
Spare a dime? 

Oh ... Forty! 

Oh ... Forty! 

What a perfect number 

We all know it is the new thirty. 

That it's twice as much fun as twenty 

Four times more knowledgeable than a ten 

Eight times more accomplished than a childish five 

And half that of a weighty eighty . . . what pleasures lie ahead? 


Ergo ... why Study? 

The more 
I study 

The more 
I know 

The more 
I know 

The more 
I forget 

The more 
I forget 

The less 
I know 

Ergo ... 
why study? 

Ode to Pythagoras 

The Great One he stood 
And drew back his dark hood 

It is Pythagoras, our oracle 
With another of his miracles. 

It is the good, the beautiful, the true . . . 
That be the thing to entice you. 

Your senses are your sin 
Real truth lies within. 

Experience is your fall. 
Pure reason answers all. 

Of this you must remember 
That everything is number! 

Take something with three sides 
A base, hypotenuse, right rise 

Its area we can now calculate 
Half base by rise we mensurate. 

A right triangle is the case 
Now listen . . . square the base. 

Next square the rise 

Summed ... hypotenuse squared. Surprise! 

More? A circle of radius height 
Rolled out circumference right 

A triangle we have found 

Area . . .tt radius squared. Truth abound! 

His mysticism of numbers 

And many notions he remembers 

Such respect, our master he has earned 
Mathematics ... is something to be learned 

Let no man enter here 

If its mathematics that he fears! 

Book Notes: 

1) There for the Grace of God Go I 

Patrick Bruskiewich © 2010 

A poem first published in the e-magazine THIS GREAT SOCIETY in 
November 2010 

The poem is written as a tribute to the author's godfather Claude St. Amaud, 
RCAF, who lies buried in the Choloy Military Cemetery near Nancy in 

Claude died in the summer of 1965, at age 24, while on active service with 
NATO. He had been married three weeks and left behind a young widow 
Peggy and a loving family. He lies buried beside many allied soldiers who 
died in World War Two and during the Cold War, including over a hundred 
RCAF pilots and ground crew who died during their service in Europe. 

2) We Had Braved the North Atlantic Run 

written in December 2012 
Inspired by an excerpt (p. 24-25) from the book Admiralty Brief by Captain 
Edward Terrell, RN George Harraps & Co, London 1958 

3) Bring on the Rain 

written August 1998 

4) Hug Me For I am Lonely 

written November 2004 

5) Whilst Absinthe makes the Heart Grow Fonder 

Patrick Bruskiewich © 14 April 2000 

A poem first published in the e-magazine THIS GREAT SOCIETY 
A tribute to the painter Vincent van Gogh using some of his own words. 

6) And Shadows Will Creep Away 

written February 2000 

7) Joy Blossoms Forth 

written March, 1997 


8) That What Makes me King 
written March 2004 

9) The Tuscan Women Know 

written April, 2010 

10) Past These Hours ... at Twilight's Gate 

written July, 2010 

11) Like Strong Coffee 

written December, 2010 

12) So Near Yet Distant Can it Be 

written July 2010 

13) You Can See That in My Math 
written May 2013 

14) The Cat Lept Off 

written June 2010 

15) Let Us Portray All Things of Beauty and of Art 

written August 2010 

16) The Strong Has Conquered Us the Weak 

written August 2010 

17) The Majestic Beauty of Womanhood 

written July, 2010. 

18) Is That Not Enough? 

written August 2008. 

19) Conceptions as to What Perhaps May Be 

written March, 2006 

20) And We Can't Seem to Get Rid of Them 

written May 2013 

21) She Had Not Much Yet to Grow 

written August, 2010 

22) Rhyme Time 

written September 2000 

23) She is the Minatrice 

written September, 2010 

24) Where Does Lost Time Go? 

written February, 1996 

25) Your Politics is All Amiss 

written August, 2004 

26) I Know Not Beauty, I Know Not Sin 

written December, 2013 

27) She Creates Her Own Harness 

written November, 2000 

28) We've been Suzuki'd, been Shanghai' 

written April 2012 

29) Just Blame it on the Old White Man 

written May 2013 

30) There are Ants in My Kitchen 

written 5* June, 2013 

31) One Can Find Summer's Happiness 

written June 22'^'^, 2011 

32) Depression Session 

written June, 2013 

33) From Which Learns He 

written 27 October, 2010 

34) She Creates Her Own Harness 

written 20 Nov., 2000 

35) It's Four a.m. Now 

written 10 June, 2013 

36) Nibble and Bytes 
written 9 Jan. ,2103 

37) Galileo's Birthday 

written 8 March, 1997 

38) Can a Diana 

written circa 1973 .... while skipping rope with Diana! 

39) I Really Need to Beat This Heat 

written 26 July, 2013 in the midst of a heat wave in Vancouver 

40) That Rush to Never Land 

written 6 Sept. 2013, after a hard day of disappointments 

41) Nothing is Really Important 

written many years ago . . . based on a logics problem of unknown origin 

42) Towards Uncharted Shores 

written 14 Sept. 2013, after sitting with Miss C, a friend 

43) And Please Don't Forget Something Strong 

written 20 Aug. 2013, when I could not afford to buy simple groceries 

44) There's a Mouse in my House 

written 18 August, 2013, after Megan found a mouse near her house 

45) Then ... There was the Fifth 

written 29 June, 2013 to amuse some friends 

46) That Was That 

written 22 June, 2103 finding berries missing and scat in the garden 

47) Brother Can You Spare a Dime? 

written Friday 13 Sept. 2013 while sitting in fi-ont of a stack of bills 


48) Oh ...Forty! 

written 20 Sept. 2013 for a friend's fortieth on the 25th 

49) Ergo ... Why Study? 

written years ago . . . based on an adage that made the rounds at UBC 

50) Ode to Pythagoras 

written 20 June, 2013, upon publishing a book about Pythagoras